


Scrupulously Inexact

by Palebluedot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Post-Canon, just finished the book and started the series and they've got me..Tender, lighthearted introspection, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-11 10:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19107898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: Since it, meaning everything, had so nearly slipped through his fingers and down into Hell's fiery maw, or up to the worse alternative, Crowley was studying it all with fresh eyes. He found quite a lot to think about.The overwhelming majority of what he'd found to think about took full advantage of his distraction, and reached across the table to spear olives from his plate.





	Scrupulously Inexact

The Ritz was, well, the Ritz. Same as it always was, with their favorite table open at their favorite time of day. It was Aziraphale's turn to work that particular bit of magic, which meant it was Crowley's turn to pick up the check. It was a neat system they'd come up with some centuries ago and settled into quite comfortably. It worked.

Crowley brushed off his slightly smoking shoulders and sat.

They went through the motions of examining the menu, but when the waiter returned, Aziraphale ordered for both of them without ever having consulted Crowley. That was something else that worked. Crowley had an eye for the spots they'd both like, and Aziraphale always found the best thing on the menu. Simple. Like orbits, or cockroaches, they carried on just as they'd done.

While waiting for their food, they got bored, so Crowley tied together the shoelaces of a seated man in an expensive suit and waited, and Aziraphale brightened all the flowers at every table in a twenty foot radius. Crowley didn't have to look to know that the flowers had all regrown roots that burrowed into soil that replaced the water, because Aziraphale always, _always_ overdid it. They bickered about that in a rote way for a while because it made more sense than how the day before, the Apocalypse came and was and was no more.

“Well, my dear, if it's worth doing...” Aziraphale said primly as he fussed with his napkin, trailing off like he expected Crowley to know how to finish one of his stuffy little sayings. Which, irritatingly, he did.

All in all, it was a normal, rather unremarkable meal, except that Crowley was quieter than usual, because he was preoccupied with the notion of normalcy. It was, after all, what they had fought for (to debatable effect), and here it was. Since it, meaning everything, had so nearly slipped through his fingers and down into Hell's fiery maw, or up to the worse alternative, Crowley was studying it all with fresh eyes. He found quite a lot to think about.

The overwhelming majority of what he'd found to think about took full advantage of his distraction, and reached across the table to spear olives from his plate. At the next table, the man in the expensive suit dabbed his mouth with his napkin, stood, and fell flat on his face. Crowley observed both of these events but did nothing. He was truly deep in thought.

The thing was, they'd never exactly put a _name_ to it, what they'd been doing all this time. There was the Arrangement, yes, but that was a business matter that did little to clarify what noun most appropriately described the occupant of the chair across from him. “Partner” could work, but there was a certain ambiguity about that which made it somehow too loose and too binding at once. “Adversary” had a nice ring to it, but Aziraphale would bristle at the implications of that, and if Crowley was honest, it was only technically correct. “Friend” was obvious, but incomplete. And “lover”, while frequently true, left the same cloying taste in Crowley's mouth as did the notion of eschewing definitions altogether in favor of calling him something ridiculous like “his Aziraphale.”

Besides, they'd never talked about it in those terms. Or at all, really. It just spent a long time pointedly not happening, and then one day it did, and it all felt a bit strange for a while until it didn't anymore, and now here they were, long-time lovers by definition, but not _only_ that.

But it certainly was a factor.

Crowley remembers the first time Aziraphale ever kissed him, back in the twelfth century — barely-there and somewhat drunken, but definitely on the lips. This led swiftly to the first time _he_ kissed _Aziraphale,_ and by the end of the whole crowded flurry of seconds and thirds and so forths, they had both quite lost count. Records remained equally spotty throughout the following centuries for similar reasons of quantity. So often, it just seemed the thing to _d_ _o._

For all their practice, they still seemed to hold fundamentally different philosophies about kissing, but Aziraphale always smiled and blushed when they did it Crowley's way, so he knew that Aziraphale liked that Crowley's tongue could still go thin and forked on the end when it wanted to. For his own part, he didn't mind when Aziraphale took the lead either, even if it _was_ too slow and too soft and choking to death on _care_.

Demons don't blush. They refuse to.

They do smile, when it suits them.

He never even tempted Aziraphale into any of it at all, was the extraordinary thing. Not even the first time, a fact Crowley rather kicked himself over once he realized it. He should've done, ages ago. Then they could've gotten to this part sooner.

Of course, it worked out so it didn't matter much that it had taken them a few thousand years to try, because they were looking down the barrel of eternity now, and it just might stick this time. Their favorite restaurants wouldn't stand forever, but _restaurants_ would. People just couldn't seem to stop taking other people to them, so they would carry right along. And so the two of them would keep having lunch. That had been rather the point of deciding to save the world.

So! Eternity. They were well on their way. Things would go on just as they were, which was lovely, but it also meant that the confusion would continue, too. There was some unspoken agreement at work, the details of which mystified Crowley somewhat. Demons wrote plenty of fine print, but only angels ever actually _read_ it —

In a flash of inspiration, it occurred to him for the very first time in eight hundred years (or six thousand, depending on how you counted), to flat-out ask Aziraphale what the hell they were to one another. This did not cross his mind because Hell's playbook had a whole chapter entitled _Conversations_ _That Fumble_ _Their Way Towards Defining_ _Relationships_ , but because he simply wanted to know. In fact, he _should_ know. This was ridiculous. He had the _right._

After some forethought, he worked out a method to draw himself up to his full sitting height while still remaining slouched with one arm slung over the back of his chair, then did it. “Look, angel — ” he began.

His throat stopped at once.

It had less to do with how Aziraphale's curious eyes met his, and more to do with hearing the sound of his own voice. Letting a well-worn, taken-for-granted word have a proper landing. Crowley called Aziraphale “angel” sometimes because that's what he was, and it suited him, the bastard bits and all, and Crowley liked that. And Aziraphale called him “dear” and “love” like it was equally as factual. They'd both done this for an awfully long time.

It was what it was, Crowley decided in an instant. They would just carry on being whatever it was they happened to be, and pretending to disapprove of each other when the occasion called for it, and someday they'll sit shoulder to shoulder feeding whatever it is that ducks end up evolving into, and Aziraphale will hold his hand and Crowley will think, _This feels nice,_ because it always did. Crowley knew of a certain adjective Aziraphale would have liked to use to describe the whole phenomenon if given the opportunity, and he rolled his eyes, because good _God_ , he was insufferable when he was right. But it was what it was.

And, to borrow a phrase, it was _good._

Aziraphale's eyes grew more curious as Crowley held the rest of his sentence hostage, then backslid into worry. He was good at worrying. Crowley had gotten good at stopping him.

“Just take my plate, save your arm the trouble of reaching over to pilfer the rest of my olives,” he said, holding it out. “If you're going to steal, be honest about it, why don't you?”

“It's not stealing if it's a gift,” Aziraphale replied happily. He took the plate with both hands and stacked it neatly atop his own, now empty. “Shall we order dessert? I'm feeling like crème brûlée, and I know you're fond of that chocolate lava thing.”

A good idea was a good idea, no matter who it came from — Crowley summoned the waiter with a rude little snap of his fingers that threw a spark, and Aziraphale looked at him reproachfully. They locked eyes and smiled.

Beneath the table, their feet touched and did not move

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't make them dumb, I just kept them that way. 
> 
> Comments are love! <3


End file.
